


Turn against the darkness with intention

by jeanquirieplus (wireless)



Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-22
Updated: 2010-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wireless/pseuds/jeanquirieplus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It isn't a skirt," he replies, "it's a kilt, and for God's sake never repeat that in front of my father."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn against the darkness with intention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spirograph](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=spirograph).



> 3400 words. THIS IS THE WAR AND PEACE OF PWP. It's not betaed and it only exists because [info]spirograph was whining about there not being any porn and then she wanted a masked ball and ice cream and a pony and a magic squirrel so all of a sudden I'd written 5 pages of nonsense with dicks touching. I did go back over it to make it safe for public consumption. No more buttsexpasta, Span. I'm sorry.

The Forsythes made their fortune in textiles sometime in the 19th century, but they only moved themselves and their money over to Methuen in 1925. Andy doesn't know much about the family's history, only what his father's told him, but he does remember their arrival. Laurie, the eldest daughter, had been in school with him from primary all the way through high school, and he has vague recollections of a very pretty, very spoiled blonde. He never burnt himself on that particular flame. Ninety percent of the Varsity squad trail blazed ahead of him and he never felt the need to punctuate their efforts.

Since he's been back home, the Forsythes have put their vast oak-lined ballroom to work by multiplying dances and dinners, mingling local debutantes with returned soldiers. He's been invited to a grand total of nine parties, all of which he's attended uncomfortably ensconced in his dress blues and the glory heaped upon him by a civilian population who doesn't understand and doesn't care about the particulars of his experience in the Pacific. They care about the Nazis, and they want to talk about Nuremberg. He doesn't know what to tell them. When he was younger, before the banzai charges and the snipers and the thousands of dead young men, these events were merely an annoyance to be countenanced politely. Now they leave him disoriented. He knows he's always been well-liked–he's at a loss as to why even though he has become used to the attention over the years–but now he feels like he's been put up for auction. Every one of these balls involves hours of genteelly forced conversation with society girls looking for a husband, they like the star quarterback, the decorated Marine officer.

That's why, when the invitation to a costume ball at the Forsythe residence arrives on a clear day in mid-October, he picks up the envelope and promptly drops it in the paper pile next to the pantry intending to forget it. Two weeks later, when Eddie fishes it out while rooting around for a list, he's succeeded.

Eddie's got a smear of motor-oil down his nose that Andy's been tracking for the past ten minutes while the other man putters around the kitchen making a sandwich. He's so engrossed he doesn't even notice what Eddie's reading until it's too late.

"You've got another invitation to that castle, Andy." Eddie scrunches his face up as he brandishes the invitation at Andy with grease-smeared fingers. "It's a dress-up thing this time."

Andy plucks the card out of Eddie's hand and glances down at it perfunctorily. "So it is." He sets it down on the table in front of him and looks back up to find Eddie watching him with a pensive expression on his face.

"You going?" he prompts, meekly, and Andrew heaves a sigh before flicking at the heavy card-stock, propelling it halfway across the table. "No, no I don't think I am," he answers.

Eddie smirks at him then, and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Reckon every old lady for three counties is trying to get you married off, huh?" Andy finds a wan smile for that–it's true enough, of course, but it isn't nearly as funny to him as it seems to be to Eddie. "I hate disappointing them," he says with a shrug. Eddie shakes his head and then reaches back to the counter for the plate he's left there. "Well you know, it could be fun," he says, taking a bite. A bit of lettuce falls out and Andy follows its downward trajectory with a doubtful expression on his face. "I don't see how," he answers softly. Eddie chews and then rolls his eyes at him. "Honestly, I do not know why you care so damn much, Skip. These people like you, they want to see you." He offers Andy the other half of his sandwich with a raised eyebrow, and Andy waves it off. "They don't know me, Eddie."

Eddie shrugs at that and a wry smile passes over his face. "I don't know that that's ever handicapped anyone before." He sticks the last bit of crust into his mouth and leans back against the counter. Andy takes the time to watch him, the easy grace of the movement contrasting with his gangly limbs. The two top buttons of his flannel shirt are undone, the tips of his collar bone visible where the fabric folds outwards. Andy stands, and yields to the urge to press his fingers there. "You could come with me," he says, tracing the bone. "I'm not invited," replies Eddie, breath soft against Andy's mouth. "Who cares," he smiles, brushing his lips against Eddie's. "You're a war hero, they'll love it. Come with me." Eddie laughs at that and leans in to kiss him again. "Sure," he says, "fine. But if I get kicked out for being a dumb hick it'll be on you."

****

Friday evening two weeks later finds Andy in his father's old kilt feeling vaguely foolish. The contraption fits, and he's elected to wear underwear despite his father's assurances that all of his ancestors would spin in their graves if they knew, but he's uncomfortable nevertheless. It doesn't help that Eddie dissolves into giggles (giggles!) when he spies Andy frowning at himself in the bedroom mirror. "Gee whizz, Skip. Nice skirt." he chokes out, leaning on the dresser for support, "very fetching."

"It isn't a skirt," he replies, "it's a kilt, and for God's sake never repeat that in front of my father." He smoothes down the front panel and clips on the ancient Sporan his mother had found in a box in the far corner of the attic. "He's already annoyed that I consider this a costume."

The Haldane tartan is, luckily, not one of the most garish he's seen. The green and the blue accord themselves well and he isn't all together ashamed of his getup, but he doesn't wear it as naturally as his father does. He's not particularly looking forward to this evening. "What are you going to wear?" he throws over his shoulder, slightly annoyed. Eddie inclines his head and says, "well, tried to borrow a ballerina costume off little Clara Gleason but she wasn't having it." The image surprises a laugh out of Andy. "It's a pity," Eddie is saying, tugging something out of one of the mid-level drawers, "I would have tried harder if I'd known we'd be matching."

Andy leaves him to it and goes downstairs to practice sitting down.

Eddie reappears twenty minutes later wearing a pieced-up jumper and ragged pants with a wide-brim hat stuffed with straw. Andy laughs at the costume because it's slightly too on-the-nose not to. "You look ridiculous," he says fondly. Eddie gives Andy a small half-smile and shrugs up one shoulder, says "got told I looked like a scarecrow a lot when I was little" quietly. He plucks at his sleeve self-consciously and sends a tiny avalanche of straw raining down on the living room carpet. Andy bends down to pick some of it up and tucks it back into his cuff. Eddie holds out his arm to let him secure it into place with the rope he'd tied around his sleeve and chuckles softly. "Sides, it was hard work coming up with a costume that made your skirt look dashing by comparison. Really, you should be thanking me." Andy flicks his eyes up to meet Eddie's. They're full of warmth and something else. His pulse quickens slightly, but they're running late so he keeps his eyes fixed on the bird bones of Eddie's wrist and finishes his adjustments. "Okay, let's get," he says, patting Eddie's cuff, "I think your stuffing will stay put." He adopts a mock long-suffering expression before relinquishing Eddie's hand and adds "try not to leak all over the ballroom, this is a reputable house we're going to" before turning off the lights and heading to the door. He can't see Eddie's smile in the penumbra, but he can feel it radiate like heat across his back as he opens the door.

***

The ball is exactly what he expected, except more crowded by half and filled with people in ludicrous costumes. Some of the masks must have depleted bird populations from entire counties. Eddie had squeezed his shoulder as they entered the house, and Andy's bunker of charm had descended right after that as he waded into the assembly. He keeps running into old school acquaintances, socialites from previous functions, their mothers, and other young ex-soldiers. The first three insist on making small talk while the last category just wants to shake his hand and awkwardly reminisce. Eddie's been co-opted by several masked young women who appear to be pecking at him in the far corner of the ballroom. He's withstanding it very well all things considered, and Andy is struck once again by his adaptability. But he glances around the throng every few minutes to get a fix on Andy's whereabouts nevertheless.

Andy is currently in the grips of an interminable conversation with a friend of his sister's. Margaret has been attempting to set him up with Trudy since before the war, and he feels obligated to dance with her at least twice to make up for being such a cold fish. They haven't met up until now–Andy's done his damndest to wiggle out of every commitment Margaret made for him while sparing everyone's feelings, but not even Houdini could have escaped this one.

"Isn't it just absolutely wonderful to finally meet?" Trudy is saying, a strand of her long auburn hair coquettishly wound around her index finger. He catches Eddie's eye, several yards away, caught in an animated exchange with a brunette in a cat costume. "It is, Trudy, it's a pity it took so long." He feels like the crowd is pressing in on him, like he might suffocate here, inexplicably, in a jacket a half-size too small in the warmth and the comfort of a New England mansion. Trudy's laugh is bell-like, and she really is an exceedingly lovely girl, but all he wants to do is retrieve Eddie. He makes some excuse mid-conversation (they're talking about defensive tackles, which has to be an innuendo), doesn't pause to even hear himself or examine the plausibility of his words (civilian life is making him selfish), and sidesteps several elderly ladies with fans to grab Eddie's elbow.

"Pardon me, miss" he interrupts the cat, who looks him up and down unselfconsciously and pauses at the kilt, "could I borrow Edward for a minute?" The cat girl giggles coyly and before she even finishes nodding yes he's dragging Eddie out of the ballroom by the upper arm. Eddie doesn't ask any questions, his easy trust a constant surprise now that they're in no danger of being shot at anymore, and Andy moves his hand down until he's clasping Eddie's warm palm as they walk up the deserted third story staircase. There's a tiny service room on the south wing of the house. Andy remembers it from high school; he'd discovered it with Annette Clancy at a graduation party. She'd been almost as breathless as he is now. He pushes Eddie into the small space and watches him bend a little to clear the low, sloped ceiling, before spinning around and wedging a chair under the doorknob.

Eddie's hands are on him before he fully turns to face him again, nimble fingers unbuttoning his waistcoat, then his dress-shirt as their mouths latch together. Eddie bites his lower lip and he shrugs out of his shirt before tugging at the hem of Eddie's sweater, sending straw everywhere. "You did not think this costume through," he gasps out, brushing straw out Eddie's hair as Eddie attacks his neck. "You, however," says Eddie voice thick and slow like syrup, kissing at Andy's jaw, "did." He validates the remark by dragging a hand up Andy's thigh, bunching the fabric of the kilt up. "I spose that's why they made you an officer." Andy doesn't stop to point out this admission of officer competence, or that Eddie was an officer too, that Andy got him the commission, too busy gasping into Eddie's mouth, reeling at the familiar taste of his breath, fingers digging in to his finely-boned shoulders. Eddie is still too skinny. He drags his palms down Eddie's chest and backs away when the tips of his fingers hit the raised edge of a scar on his torso. There isn't much light in the room, only the feeble illumination of the moon through the window, but he can see it clearly, remembers with a jolt what it was like to see Eddie bleed out, his red-coated fingers completely useless against overwhelming, imminent mortality.

He wraps an arm around Eddie's waist and leans down to press his lips against the scar. Eddie hisses, and pulls him back up. His touch is gentle on Andy's neck, his expression soft as he shakes his head. "Stop it, Skip, I can hear you thinking. There's not a damn thing you can do about it and I'm here anyway." Andy nods and Eddie's kissing him again, fingers pushing into his hair, nails rough against his scalp and then trailing down to the sensitive spot at the base of his neck. Andy shivers and Eddie reverses their positions, walks him backwards until his legs hit the frame of the small bed under the window and he falls backwards onto the rough cotton coverlet, grabbing Eddie by the waist as he goes.

They land in a tangle of limbs and Eddie laughs quietly while Andy rolls them sideways, fingers tracing patterns on the skin over Eddie's ribs before fumbling with his fly, mouth polarized to the column of his neck. He sucks a bruise at the junction between Eddie's throat and collar bone just because he can, because Eddie can cover it with his collar or claim some girl did it–the greatest gift of peace is the freedom they get from their relative privacy. There are a million things he will never take for granted, he thinks, as he nips at Eddie's earlobe. He's learned over the weeks to play Eddie's reactions almost as well as Eddie plays his guitar, knows the way his accent thickens when Andy touches him, knows the texture of his skin from the pulse point at his neck to smooth jut at his ankle, knows the paths to take and the combinations of fingers to use, but there are so many more and he wants to learn them all. Wants to categorize them and memorize them and know them because it'll give him a small piece of the man, so far short from his infinite variety but a piece of his own nevertheless.

Eddie arches up under his hands and moans when Andy's fingers slide down his sides, beneath the waistband of his pants to the thin skin under the sharp protrusion of his hip bone. He tugs at the wool and Eddie lifts his hips so that Andy can pull his pants down and off, drop them over the side of the bed. Andy bends at the waist and nips at the places where his fingers linger, teasing, toes the thin line on the soft side of pain.

Eddie tugs him back up and then pushes him into the mattress, impatient, crawls between his legs, rucks up his kilt and draws his knuckles up the length of Andy's cock, thumb sweeping over the head. "You want to take this off?" he asks thickly, tugging at the fabric around Andy's waist, and Andy hums in frustration before attacking the straps with shaking hands. Eddie bats them away and makes short work of the buckles, then throws the kilt down next to his pants. Andy tries not to picture his father's face but he doesn't have to worry about it long because Eddie gently grazes the underside of his cock with his teeth and his vision whites out. He fights to even out his breathing and Eddie, who loves a challenge, the bastard, hollows his cheeks and swallows him all the way down, dragging his tongue along the bump of the vein as he goes. Andy sees stars and grips at the bedspread, looks down to see Eddie grin up at him, slick mouth catching the moonlight. "Come back up here," he whispers unsteadily, hands closing around Eddie's biceps, "come back." Eddie obliges, crawling up over him on his forearms until they're chest to chest, bodies perfectly aligned. He matches the rhythm of his breath to the Eddie's, and sweeps his hands up his back, over other scars, brushes his lips over the distinctive angle of Eddie's adam's apple.

He can feel the atmosphere shift as he reaches up and buries his hands in Eddie's hair, kisses him almost chastely. Eddie doesn't close his eyes, just watches him, pupils blown and a little cross-eyed, then slips his arm into the space between the mattress and Andy's lower back. "Up," he says, and drags them both into a sitting position. Eddie leans down and kisses him on the temple, then spits into his palm and reaches behind himself. Andy realizes what he's about to do mid-motion and grabs his wrist. "Don't," he says, and Eddie raises his eyebrows. "Don't. I don't want to hurt you," Andy repeats. Eddie licks his lips and then shakes his head. "You're not going to hurt me." When Andy doesn't release his wrist, Eddie sighs and cups the side of his face with his other hand. "No?" he asks, and Andy shakes his head, releases his wrist. They've never done this before. Andy isn't sure what the mechanics are and he's wary of causing Eddie any pain. "I don't think spit'll do it," he says gently, rubbing Eddie's back. "I've-" Eddie starts to say, but Andy cuts him off with a kiss. He's not sure this is something he wants to know about. "At home, Eddie. We have time." Eddie watches him and finally nods. Then he spits into his palm again and slides it up Andy's dick in one fluid motion before taking them both in hand. Andy stabilizes himself best he can by wrapping his arms around Eddie's back, one hand trailing up to grip the base of his neck, and the air gets sucked out of his lungs by the sensation. He always feels like there are iron bands around his lungs when Eddie touches him, like he can't expand them correctly.

Eddie keeps the rhythm easy and moves his right hand down from Andy's shoulder to his waist, urging his hips up while he rolls his own forwards. Andy moans and buries his face in Eddie's neck, but Eddie tugs him back and gasps "no, no look at me," so Andy does, keeps his eyes on Eddie's face and sees him shudder, then let his head fall back with a sigh. Andy runs a hand up Eddie's arm and kisses the hollow of his throat. "Oh Jesus," whispers Eddie, head thrown back, "do that again." Andy does, misses, tries again, laughing, hands reaching up and tightening into Eddie's hair, pulling his face down so he can kiss him like a drowning man emerging from under water. The feeling is almost overwhelming, but every time his eyes slip shut Eddie tells him to keep them open, to look at him, and there's nothing he'd rather do so he tries. It pushes him over the edge quickly, his senses overloaded by the feel of Eddie's body and the slices of him visible in the pale light, the graceful arch of his throat, the curve of his shoulders, and his eyes, almost always open, blown black. Andy has never thought another man was beautiful before.

When they're done, the ante-room quiet again and Andy's pulse not doing its level-best to outdo Niagra anymore, they let themselves breath in tandem and tune out the faint music from the party three stories under them. They lie still in the dark, legs entangled, surrounded by unthreatening shadows, loving each other in silence.


End file.
